©Julia Welstead 2012

I’ve just got to the top of the rock-steps and plateaued out onto the Nether Hill, with Arthur’s Seat looming in front, when two dark figures appear out of the grasslands ahead, as if they had been waiting for me. They separate from each other and their individual silhouettes approach from left and right, in what I see as a pincer movement. The moment I see them I know I’m in trouble and, even though my rational mind is trying to say that these are just early morning hill walkers, or perhaps interrupted lovers, my ancient fight or flight mechanism has swung into action and is telling me what to do. I take a sharp right toward Crow Hill. The figures come toward me and one shouts, “C’mon love” then, “I love you” in a mocking voice. Again my logical cortex tries to convince me that one dark figure must be speaking to the other, because why would a stranger say that to me? But my animal brain knows exactly why – it’s a ritual mating call as male moves in on female. It’s not a question or a request, but a statement of intent. I break into a run and simultaneously pull my phone out of my pocket. There have been a few times when I have felt scared when out walking alone, and I’ve always wondered how I’ll know when to phone for help. Now I have absolutely no doubts: this is the moment. 

I’m on the ascent onto Crow Hill when I realise how stupid that would be. My accosters – because that’s what they are now – have moved in to the extent that they could trap me on the hill, one behind me and one to my left. One of them makes another mocking comment, a “c’mom darlin’” kind of jeer, but my brain no longer has the capacity to translate it. I take another sharp right and head down a steep, narrow track through gorse. It’s a calculated risk: this is a dangerous track round the back of Crow Hill, with a long cliff-drop right down to the road below, and it’s still dark enough not to be able to see much. You wouldn’t survive a fall down it without some broken bones. My racing mind is working on the premise that these guys will either not know of the track and will think they’ve lost me, or will know it but will decide it’s too bothersome to follow me. I’m also assuming they’ll see the flash of my phone and hoping that might put them off.

I’m running fast down a track that I would usually carefully pick my way along. The dogs are swift and silent, Maddie in front of me, Rolo behind: they absolutely recognise the severity of the situation and are with me all the way, no questions asked and no rabbiting diversions.

999 connects immediately and a woman asks the, ‘fire, ambulance, police’ question and I say ‘police’ and a click puts me through to another woman who stays with me then all the way down the hill. She’s asking detailed location questions and asking about the guys behind me and I’m answering and breathing increasingly hard as I run. Where on the hill? Which direction am I heading? Where will I reach the road? How many? What kind of clothing? Are they still behind me? She has an even, calm, matter-of-fact voice with undertones of sympathy. She makes for good company and I press the phone to my left ear whilst my right arm is busy with balance and forward movement issues. My legs are like pistons, pumping up, forward, down, feet dodging slippery gravel and choosing secure landing spots with split-second precision: pumping adrenaline renders me as nimble and sure-footed as a mountain goat. My body is a well-tuned machine, rising magnificently to the challenge of getting me The Hell Out Of Trouble.

 Every ten paces or so I twist to look behind me. To begin with I can hear breathing and footfall, and then there’s nothing. I’m pretty sure they’ve given up, but I’m not stopping for anyone now, not till I reach the Duddingston car park and a police car.

My left-ear companion tells me that the police are on their way, and then that they’ve arrived in the car park. I reach the upper road and cross to the top of the steps down. There’s no one behind me now, I’m sure, but my flight instinct is still in full swing and I hurtle down the steps like never before. I can see the police car lights now and my cortex is saying, ‘slow down, the danger is past’ but my body has forgotten how to brake and I crash into the metal barrier at the bottom of the hill like I’ve seen red deer crash into fences when startled into full flight. I’ll sport some bruises for that later.

The wonderful voice makes sure I’m with the police and says goodbye. I could hug her. 

Three officers, a woman and two men, are there with two vehicles. They ask if I’m OK and I double over with a mix of the hard breathing of exertion and a sudden wave of emotion. Mostly it’s a huge wave of relief, and I’m just so happy to be with these guys down here and not with those guys up there. I’m safe and in one piece.

Having ascertained that I’m not hurt, and that my accosters aren’t anywhere close, the dogs and I are loaded into the back of a police van for a ride back to my car, which of course is on the other side of the hill – I hadn’t intended coming this way. Two officers come with me, one driving while the other asks me questions, and the third officer is speaking into his walkie-talkie as we leave and I understand that they are going to try to catch these rogues. We are driven very slowly along Queen’s Drive, the dogs wanting to sit next to me on the seat and me trying to make them look obedient and sit on the floor. After a short tousle Rolo (a mini-dachshund) is in my lap and Maddie ( a big hairy mutt) has her head on my knee, so we’re all having a group hug.

We reach my car and the police double check that I’m OK to drive home and ask if there’s anyone they can phone for me, but there’s no one I can think of. They ask if I’d be willing to testify against my accosters if they are caught, and I say yes. I’d be pleased to be instrumental in getting such scum off the hill, away from where they can hurt and harm. 

A slow, wobbly drive home through dawn streets. It’s only 6.15am and so much has happened this morning already. With adrenaline dissipating, I’m beginning to feel bone tired and shivery. Going up the garden path my legs won’t quite straighten and my knees are brushing each other – I’m a different person to that of half an hour ago, a shadow of my former self. Inside I lock the door and the tears roll down.

Hot tea, hot bath, hot porridge. Phone a friend.

9.45am

I’m dog tired, rag doll floppy, no stuffing left. I’m glad I wrote the above whilst still on the tail flick of the adrenaline high. A few things occurred to me in the bath:

1. I have never had to phone 999 before and I was absolutely astonished at how swiftly I was connected to a person.
2. The emergency services were magnificent: swift, knowledgeable, thorough, understanding, comforting. I had (briefly) wondered how on earth I could describe where I was to an operator sitting in an office goodness-knows-where, with no idea about this hill in Edinburgh, never mind a particular track on the hill. But the woman who spoke with me was local and knew exactly where I was describing. Whenever there is talk of cutting and centralising services, please think of this, how vital it is to speak with someone who knows the local environment.
3. I was also astonished at how incredibly well my body responded to the situation. If ever you find yourself in anything similar, trust your instincts over and above anything your logical brain is trying to tell you (but I don’t mean that you should flee from every rustle of a plastic bag: you will know when the situation is serious). We have the flight/fight/freeze system for exactly these moments. I’m clearly a flight type of person (but I’ve always known that). Oh, and try to keep fit – you never know when you might need to perform.
4. I’ve just checked the duration of my 999 call, ie the time it took me to get from the hilltop to the car park, and it was 8 minutes 36 seconds. I’m sure there are proper runners who could do it faster, but I’m quite proud of being so fleet of foot in my moment of need.
5. The police were also impressively swift and took the situation seriously, for which I shall always be grateful.
6. Had I not had my phone, this story could/would have been very different.
7. This story could also have been very different if we were living in a country that condones gun carrying: I’m pretty sure the person in my situation would have pulled theirs out in defence, or the accosters pulled theirs out as a threat, and the chances are someone would have been injured.
8. This is a success story, but what enrages me is that a beautiful place like our city hill has to be treated with caution, because of the existence of such evil human low-life. I know that I won’t be going up there at 5.30am on my own anymore, so their actions have effectively restricted my lifestyle.
9. I’d like to thank the Edinburgh emergency services and police for their swift and efficient response.